


Carry Us All

by FloralMotif



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 12, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Case Fic, Gen, Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-10-31 02:35:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10889892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FloralMotif/pseuds/FloralMotif
Summary: Sam and Dean get a case in the northwest. Dean and Sam try to operate while holding back the strains in their lives. Set before 12.12.





	Carry Us All

**Author's Note:**

> The first fanfic I've written since I was 12 or 13. I'm still not used to prose and this may be a little shaky. Hopefully it serves some purpose though.
> 
> So much thanks to grey2510 for beta-ing this fic. Sorry it took me so long to finish the edits.
> 
> \----  
> This is a work of fiction and I don't own any of the characters or any of Supernatural.

\----

“The nights are long here,” said the Sheriff when they arrived. “Sun starts goin’ down at 3, lets up ‘round 9.” The old man warned them about the roads, too. The place was a dark spot at night. ‘So few street lights, people didn’t leave their houses much. Nothing was open “‘cept the bars.” It made their arrival time almost useless. Sam and Dean Winchester had been making rounds to the houses for a few hours but once the sun went down completely, few people talked. Even the bar patrons settled into their nightly bubbles and only begrudgingly lifted their heads to exclaim, “Sorry agent. Never heard of him.” Same as everyone else they talked to.

“Why would they all say the exact same thing?” Sam wonders. Breaking their silence as they walk the muddied road past the lake that framed one side of town into a brisk curve. The road aligned with it, only a few branches into town and a streetlamp to mark them. While the town thought itself separate and seemed to make an effort to enforce this, the lake saw no such boundary and its coils welled up from the tracks of the road with the brothers footsteps.

Dean isn’t listening to Sam, he’s looking over the lake; the moon and the dark mountains contrasting on the lake’s surface. There was something about it that caught him and blurred his thoughts. A feeling not helped by the fog creeping along in the night and the mud that felt like it was pulling him down.

“Dean?” Sam persists. He stops behind him and Dean turns around after a moment.

“Uh, sorry Sammy. No.. uh.. Maybe Corwin was a dick,” he laughs to himself and looks back at the lake. It's nestled into the mountains on the other side, the road curving with it near their bases. Something flickers down the road. It’s the last part of town they haven't checked.

Sam looks over the lake after Dean; he cocks an eyebrow and continues, “Even so, I wouldn’t think everyone in the whole town would hate him. He’d have to have some friends. Family... Something… You hear from Cas?”

Dean blinks and turns around again. “Uh, nah. Not yet. He’s out looking for Kelly. Probably still on the road.”

“You worried?” Sam asks suspiciously.

Dean smiles. “No, Sam… He’s probably busy and he doesn’t need us checking up on him all the time. I’m sure he’s fine. If he needs us, he’ll call.” Dean starts walking again and Sam follows.

“You know, it’s possible he may appreciate us calling him. I know you want him to know we trust him but he’s been gone for days and we’ve heard nothing. Maybe just—”

“You call him then. I’ll bet you though, he’s fine,” Dean says abruptly. He eyes Sam a little and they approach a shadowed area in the distance. 

“Yeah, ok,” Sam says with a sigh. “I’ll call him when we’re done here.”

Their balance is off as they walk. The mud laps at their shoes, and pools of water in the tire tracks of the road gleam in the moonlight. Dean has been casually trying to avoid these rifts, placing his footing purposefully and wincing in irritation at the cold water when he miscalculates. Sam seems mostly unperturbed, even if it does get in his shoes. It’s cold and it’s annoying, but it doesn’t change him.

A huge, wide structure comes into view. It files out like a gate around a fortress. No lights but the moisture from the fog gives it a bluish silhouette. The doors ahead of them look abandoned. They’re covered in graffiti and set into a large concrete wall that spreads in cracks and bricked patches out from their hinges. A faint but functioning sign reads in sloppy bubbled lettering “Open To Guests Of All Ages” and beneath it, lopsided and dingy: “Emmerson Amusement Park".

“Wasn’t this town called Stevenson?” says Sam, a bit puzzled.

“Maybe it is now.”

Dean examines the door for a moment and heaves at both of the looped handles. Even with its weight, one door swings on its hinges, setting Dean back a bit and revealing a set of haphazardly crossed boards nailed into the door frames from the inside.

“Wow, did someone board themselves in?” Sam asks, almost jokingly, ducking his head in for a closer look. He tries at the other door but it doesn’t budge, gropes around for a bolt but only feels a keyhole to match the one outside.

“Looks like it. Why else would this door be open? It’s not exactly safe. Kids could get in here.”

“It could be just theater. Like...give the impression of a place you can’t enter so no one enters it.”

“Yeah, that doesn’t sound like kids,” Dean breathes. He takes out a hefty knife and starts slashing at the boards. With the thunk of the knife so close to him, Sam gives a startled flinch and he backs out, shooting Dean an irritated look.

“Heh, I wasn’t gonna hit ya, Sam,” Dean jokes. 

Sam is not amused, but his irritation transitions to confusion. “Dean, I really don’t think that’s the best way, at least not on its own. Those boards look pretty sturdy.” He puts his hands out subconsciously.

“Nah, this is fine Sam, just uh... Gonna take a bit. Could, uh, could use a hand though, maybe. You got another knife on you? There’s not much room in here, but hey, if we don’t both fit, I was thinking I could dual wield.” He smiles for a moment before feeling foolish and turning away.  
Sam rolls his eyes in a breathy laugh and rummages around his suit wishing they had taken the Impala. Dean had said there was nothing out here for her except mud to clean off and a drink at the gas station, so they brought what they thought was necessary. Axes were not on that list. He digs deep into his pockets and pulls out a fidget-softened fold of paper. When he opens it, he holds it against his jacket and mulls its presence.

“Sammy?” Dean asks and Sam looks up to meet him. 

“Yeah, sorry. Uh, I... “ He searches his pockets again and pulls out a lighter in desperation.

“You wanna burn the boards down?”

“Well, we didn’t bring axes so it seems like the next best thing… Even another knife won’t do much to dent that in a reasonable amount of time.” He gestures the lighter towards the boards and brings it closer to the bewildered face of Dean’s, who takes it suspiciously.

“You feeling ok, Sam? This seems... to be honest it sounds more like me than you.” He holds the lighter out to the boards and looks for a good lighting spot. 

“The wall is made of concrete, it’s not gonna burn. If we burn the boards and knock them down, we’ll get in. And it’s not like there’s anyone else out here.”

Sam jams his hands in his pockets and feels for the piece of paper again. In the same pocket is a bunch of soft, dried leaves. He pulls his hands out abruptly, surprised at himself for placing them there.

Dean tilts his head at Sam and shrugs. He opens the lighter and gives some of the boards a few douces, then closes the cap and flicks it until the fire starts engulfing them. “Awesome,” he exclaims and backs away. They both watch in silence as the boards start to burn. While they wait, Dean notice's Sam's expression and opens his mouth to speak, but bites back the words; whatever it is, they'll deal with it later.

When the boards have mostly blackened, Dean takes a water bottle from his jacket and holds out his hand for Sam’s, who obliges. Dean looks down at the bottle he’s handing to find that most of the water is gone. He looks up at Sam and raises his eyebrows. “Jeez, we just got these. I haven’t touched mine. Why didn’t you say you were thirsty? We could have eaten first.”

“Nah, it’s fine Dean, we’re already here. We were on the road awhile, it’s alright, we’ll get food later.” 

“Yeah, ok.” 

They had come in much earlier in the day and had only brought the water bottles after they talked to everyone they could find, but Dean, once again, decides not to ask.

“Hmm,” he shrugs again. “Ok, Sammy. No time like the present. Right?” He smiles and looks back at Sam for encouragement, then tosses the combined water on the mostly burned out boards. He looks down at his mud and water covered boots and with brief contemplation, and gives the center boards a strong kick. The boards crash onto the other side and a hole they can squeeze through is opened.

The inside of the building is open and dark. While the ground is covered in mud like outside, in here, the small streaks have formed large puddles that shine up from the dark like little glowing islands. A gentle creaking echoes off the old equipment and the whole place smells like rust, must and popcorn.

Dean wanders over to anything he thinks is a building. Eventually he finds an old service desk and circles it until he can get inside. The desk is strangely colored and mottled, just like the rest of the place. It’s damp to the touch and Dean tries to wipe it dry with a black handkerchief from his suit. Strangely, it still has some old pamphlets that are mostly dry and legible, tickets, an extremely creepy photo of a mascot, an old key resting on a nail head under the desk, and a damp drawer with some employee badges and a few children’s drawings shoved into the back.

“Hey Sam!” Dean shouts through the dark. “Sam, I found something!” He starts to unfurl the children's drawings, accidentally ripping one right down the middle trying to pull it from the back of the drawer. “Damnit.” Dean is left with only some of the paper and what looks like the top half of the mascot’s face: just the eyes and hat are discernable. The kid drew the eyes as over-large black scribbles that have since ran some with water and time.

Sam finds his way to Dean and gets behind the desk. 

“It looks like most of this stuff may belong to our vic,” says Dean, amused. “Maybe that’s why no one wanted to tell us anything. His costume was damn creepy. Thinking about it gave people flashbacks.” Dean smirks and tries to open the drawer further to get out the rest of the drawing. He holds the part he has up to Sam. “Kids seemed to like him, though. Tons of drawings of him in here.” He waits for Sam to awkwardly take the drawing and rattles the drawer with both hands. “Come on!” Dean kneels down and pulls the drawer out as far as it will go, then shines his flashlight in the crack. He pulls at the drawers underneath it and reaches in.

“Yeah, I don’t think that’s why, Dean.” Sam sighs, looking at the drawing. Even the small amount they had was unnerving. He compares it to the photo; and not inaccurate. The picture itself bothered him on its own, and he was already uneasy from the place. He turns his attention to the employee badges for relief; one for the vic, and two for a pair of unknowns. They didn’t see them in town but he hopes they’re are still around. He starts to try and find an issue date when he hears a loud thump and an anguished exclamation. “Uh, Dean?”

“I’m trying to get the rest of this damned drawing!” Dean sneers. “They’ve all got dates and names on them.” Dean grabs hold of one of the drawers on the bottom and rattles it until it rocks from its track. He tosses it aside and ducks inside the drawer frame, pulling out the ripped drawing and an old, sopping wet teddy bear from the moldy cabinet. The bear is familiar and a sinking feeling sets into his stomach briefly as he holds it. He tries not to think about it as he reaches up to use it at as a brace for standing. 

When he’s up, Dean pushes the bear away and slime lifts from his hand. He grimaces in horror and hastily rubs a moonlit smear onto the surface of the counter. Then with a readjustment of his stance and thought process, Dean smoothes out the other piece of the drawing he retrieved and shines his flashlight down onto it. A chill shoots straight through his spine. Sam Winchester, May 1992 is scrawled out underneath the bottom of the paper. He looks around nervously and swallows when his eyes fall on Sam standing next to him, unaware. He balls up the paper and tucks it into his pocket feverishly.

Sam is hovering over another drawing for a moment while Dean’s thoughts wander back to their childhood. “Why would the park keep this one?” Sam begins. “Seems like something they wouldn’t accept at all…. Only thing I can think of is… wait.. wasn’t Foster, Corwin’s last name too? Maybe Jaimie was his kid.” He runs it through his head, recalling his own past sentiments with his father. He holds the paper up to Dean.

Dean shakes his head into reality and takes the drawing; his brow furrows. “Wow, dark sense of humor this kid. Well, it’s a lead anyway. We could see if Jaimie still lives in town. But it’s got me thinking. We got this case a week ago, but this place looks like it’s been abandoned forever. Corwin must have been a geezer when he disappeared.”

“Yeah, it’s weird. His photo made him look like he was around your age,” says Sam, mulling it over as he speaks, his voice escalating with his realizations. “But if he was your age when he died, then it wouldn’t make sense for Jaimie to be his son… unless that’s the only photo they had of him… and he actually disappeared years ago and they’re just reporting it now. We’ve really got to talk to these people, Dean.” He shakes his head.

“Yeah, I know and I think we’re done here. If there’s more we can find, we’ll find it tomorrow when it’s light out. C’mon Sam, let’s look at the rest of this stuff back at the motel.” Dean pats Sam on the back as he passes and lifts the gate of the desk, carrying some of their spoils with Sam after him. Sam notices that Dean forgot the teddy bear and goes to pick it up but the shining moisture repels him. He cautiously lifts it up with a rag from his pocket and carries it with him. It feels hollow under the rag, as though all of the stuffing was removed. He can feel something small, rounded and smooth rub against his fingers from under the fabric as he crumples it all together as much as he can and tucks it into his inside jacket pocket. There’s something about it that he can’t place.

On the way back, Dean keeps his head low. He thinks long and hard about their hunts as kids, about where they went with their dad. He tries to remember if they ever came here. If they did, there must have been a case. They wouldn’t come up here otherwise. He watches his footsteps track the oily reflection of the moon through the flooded ruts and potholes. The water is deeper than it was when they left and a low rumbling greets them from the west. Sam looks up when he hears it, turning briefly in that direction. He looks over the lake and watches the moon in its reflection. It twitches in the new waves but stays steady; for a moment, he feels like its tracking him, but he knows it’s an illusion. He reminisces about a similar belief as a child. Somewhat absent mindedly, he pulls out a folded piece of paper and opens it, reassuring himself he put it there.

When they get back to the motel, Sam tries to talk to the desk again. He rings the bell inside the tiny registration room with Dean onlooking from the wall. “Hello?” he calls out.

A sleepy old man comes into the room from an opening behind the motel desk and looks up at them blankly. ”Something broken, boys?” he yawns.

Sam opens his suit and pulls out a fake FBI badge. He holds it for the man’s unmoving eyes and says evenly, “We asked someone else here earlier but they didn’t know. Do you know anything about what happened to Corwin Foster? We got a case saying he disappeared from here a week ago. The only person we’ve talked to who’s told us anything is the Sheriff so far.” He gives a weak, insistent smile and puts the badge away. The teddy bear’s wetness has started to seep to his jacket and he gives a stunted wince of discomfort.

Dean keeps his distance. He had stifled a yawn and a bit of the jitters shortly after they got there as he pulled the pieces of the drawing with Sam’s name on it from his pocket and held them together. The writing is definitely Sam’s from back then — hasn’t really changed much — but his artist skills have improved. Even with the streaks of watery crayon, it’s clearly a creepy clown with large, scribbled eyes staring back at him. The center of the eyes are stark and white — a twisted cartoon face. There are no other people in the drawing, just the clown mascot and what looks like an old carousel. 

What feels like a memory flashes in Dean’s head for a moment and leaves the same hollow feeling the bear gives him. He looks up at Sam with the motel manager and shakes himself as free from the feeling as he can. He crumples the paper back up and swallows, tries to calmly examine the drawings by the other children. Most are happy but the mascot is still creepy no matter what. Drawings of him with balloons, drawings of him holding hands with families, a drawing of him in front of the carousel again. This one is cruder with a big doofy smile that exceeds his face. Dean turns the drawings over to look at the dates again. Jaimie Foster, June 1997, Rory Talbot April 1995, Angela Sturgeon August 1996, Lillian Baker May 1989, 1997, 1993, 1992, 1995, 1991, 1993… They were all before 1998. 

“Did something happen in 1997?” Dean asks loudly from the corner by the door. The old man’s startled expression darkens but he answers him first.

“There was a flood then,” the night manager begins quietly. “Nasty flood. Hit all the houses, the church, the grocery store, the whole area. Killed a few people too. It was a bad year. Too much snow melted too fast, made the lake all screwy. River down the road, too. Lake floods a little sometimes but I’ve never seen anything like that time before or since. I didn’t know your Corwin Foster very well, but if you’re getting this case now, somebody screwed up. You’ve been sent on a wild goose chase.” He throws up his hands in emphasis. “If he died in that flood, he’s been gone for years, I’m sorry.” The man fiddles with his registration book and looks up at Sam.

Sam swallows. “Maybe, but the missing person's report was filed a week ago. If he died so long ago, why report it now? Someone must want him found.” He looks back at Dean for a reaction and Dean looks up from the papers after a moment.

“Like a son, maybe, huh. D- Did he have a son? A daughter? A friend..?” He shrugs. “An uncle? Anything.” Dean lifts his hands and walks up beside Sam. “I mean, this is a small town, there can’t be much uh... space between you people.” He leans on the counter, folding the drawings and placing them in a pocket.

“Sorry, Agents, I can’t think of anyone named Foster ‘round here. You oughta call your boss, see if there’s been a mixup.”

“Uh…” Sam begins again. “Ok, do you know if anything else happened at the time of the flood? Anything at all. Anything people talk about.”

The night manager scratches the side of his chin with his knuckles. “Well nothing fer sure but there were some people who said they saw glowing horses in the water during the flood.” He stifles his laughs. ”A’course, when the flood subsided, they were just parts of the old carousel from the little amusement park down the way.” With this, Dean eyes him. “They must have washed into the lake. Hoo, but anyway, the nights ‘er long here. People always see weird shit. Doesn’t mean nothin’.”

“Yeah, Thanks…. Oh, by chance do you know who these people are?” He pulls the employee badges from his jacket and slides them across the desk.

The man eyes them and writes something down. “Laverne owns a shop in town now. It’s at the address there.” He taps the paper with his finger. “You won’t find ‘er ‘round now though, she’s gettin’ on in years.”

Sam and Dean thank the man again and head back to their motel room.

Sam starts to take off his jacket as soon as he gets into the room. The soggy bear’s wetness had spread to his dress shirt and was clinging up his shoulders. His suit and dress shirt stick to him as he tries to pull them off, each layer leaving a glittering slime behind. He quickly tears them off the rest of the way in slight panic and slams them in a clump. He pulls the bear from the inside suit pocket and watches threads of slime stretch the gap.

Dean immediately bristles and sits up in protest. “Dude, why did you bring that? Was that under your jacket this whole time? Gross, Sam. Who knows what’son it.” He searches around for a towel he can safely grip it with, both to discard it and to not look at it.

“I thought it was just water, Dean,” says Sam, wiping his hands and examining the bear more cautiously now. He can feel the small object underneath the fabric and tries to guide it out. “Besides, there’s something in here, it feels like... Got it.” He holds it up, and looks perplexed.

Dean stares for a moment. “Huh, the hell is that doing in there?”

Sam holds up a graying, white snail shell about the size of of a half dollar. Its milky finish glimmers in a bluish iridescence. He turns the opening to face him. “Huh, well snails like moist areas. It probably wandered in and couldn’t get out… it’d explain the slime at least.” 

Sam puts the shell on the motel’s little coffee table and readies his laptop. He boots it up and reaches over to bring the other things they found towards him. In his movement, he sees Dean furrowing at a piece of paper in the light from outside. He decides to take the opportunity to snap Dean out of it. “Oh yeah, I guess I was going to call Cas.” 

Dean’s gaze has moved to the trash bin the bear was in when Sam’s words lift him from his thoughts. “No, uh, you know what, Sammy? You got your research thing going… I’ll just call him, it’s fine. You do your thing.” He turns away to drop his expression, picks his phone off the dresser by the door, picks up the trash can with the bear in it, and hurries out.

Dean trudges further down the side of the building, checks the trash, and gives its contents a toss into the night. He sighs and reaches into his pocket, then nervously dials his best friend. “C’mon, Cas, pick up,” he mutters, it feels chillier to him than it did earlier and his warm words bite at the wind. After two rings, Cas answers.

“Dean?” says a gruff low voice on the other end.

Even in his discomfort and his hands clenching around his phone, the corner of Dean's mouth pulls up at the sound of Cas' voice, but he's still not sure the best approach to the conversation. “Uh, hey, where are you now? How’s the search for Kelly?”

“I’m sorry Dean. I tracked her to somewhere near Omaha Nebraska, but it seems she may have left from here too. I just.. I don’t know.”

“Can’t track the nephilim directly?”

“I think it’s shielding itself.”

“Huh, smart kid. Uh..hey, d-don’t worry, you’ll find her.”

Dean feels his phone slipping, he adjusts and looks at his hand. Tiny streaks of blue light shine back at him. He rubs it on his jacket but it doesn’t do much. He rolls his eyes and scans for the moon’s angle. 

It’s exactly where it was when they started walking to the amusement park: between the mountains, staring back from the lake.

“Are you alright Dean? You seem anxious?” Says Cas in the silence.

“Nah, Cas, I’m fine. You know, it’s just the case. Some weird shit happening around here and no one’s talking. Typical.”

“Weird? Weird how so?”

“Uh… actually Cas, I’m gonna send you a picture ok?”

“Alright.”

He fiddles with his phone and holds it to his hand, then flashes the camera. “You get that?” 

Uh, I don’t know, I’m driving. But I can pull over. 

Dean catches a glint of the moon over his hand and he holds it up to block the light. Streaks of slime highlighted his veins with an eery white sheen, as though each line were a cut for the moon to peer through.

No, no, it’s ok. Just.. when you get it, call me ok? I’ll run it by Sam too. 

Of course.

Thanks Cas.


End file.
